


Check and Mate: The Art of Positional Play

by Ophelia_Raine



Series: An Anthology of Kisses [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Bad Puns, Chess Metaphors, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Lots of Eating and Taking and Capturing Each Other, Older Man/Younger Woman, Pawnographic, Puns & Word Play, Rainy day sex, Sexy Chess, Sexy Times, Teacher-Student Relationship, sexual innuendo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 18:11:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15690675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_Raine/pseuds/Ophelia_Raine
Summary: Professor Petyr Baelish has long learned that the PhD student he’s currently supervising is so much more than a pretty face.GREAT tits, for one thing. Legs that go all the way up, my friend.But when Sansa Stark rocks up one rainy Friday afternoon for a harmless game of chess… their consult just got even more interesting.For just like love and war, chess is a battlefield… and a dirty, dirty game.





	Check and Mate: The Art of Positional Play

**Author's Note:**

  * For [janedethr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/janedethr/gifts), [HotpantsMcGee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HotpantsMcGee/gifts).



> This fic is a result of two sets of prompts. Each scene is a hundred words long. 
> 
> The first was from Janedethr, who chose #26 and #75 out of a list of [76 kissing prompts](https://0pheliaraine.tumblr.com/post/174454333860/prompt-list). This story incorporates the spirit of #75: Kisses Meant To Distract The Other Person From Whatever They Were Intently Doing 
> 
> The second prompt was from HotpantsMcGee who suggested I write a PxS set in a University, Sansa as a postgraduate. Something about having great nookie while racing against time before the alarm clock goes off. I suspect this isn't _quite_ what she probably had in mind, but I hope it still hits the right buttons!

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/43326046124/in/dateposted-public/)

_It's perfectly understandable,_ Sansa thinks, as she rings the doorbell, as she surveys the manicured lawns and the quiet _cul de sac_ in this surprisingly swank neighborhood. Perfectly understandable that she goes to his house today, that she has her thesis consult at his place. _It's Friday,_ he'd explained. _I'm not in the office on Fridays. It's my writing day. I'll be home._

 _No probs,_ she had shrugged. _I can come to you._ And so she has.

When Professor Petyr Baelish opens his door, he's in a soft T-shirt and even softer jeans. His smile is the softest of all.

* * *

Her hair, her skin is sprinkled by rain, her shirt — white, of course — is already clinging in all the right places.

But she hardly notices as she absently drops her bag into his favourite armchair. He'd taken her straight to his study — the only room he permits to look like an academic's. Precarious towers of books on every available surface, save the old coffee table in front of his even older couch, right next to the rain-streaked window.

But she's wandered over now to the glass cabinet where all seven chess sets live.

"Do you play?" he asks.

"A little.”

* * *

He opens the glass door, already knowing what she's staring at.

"Is that..."

"Gold, yes." He blinks, playing the innocent for now.

She picks up a pawn with open fascination and turns it over. It's an anatomically faithful gold-plated phallus. Even has the urethral slit at the top. She runs a curious finger over the thick veins around the shaft and he feels the ghost of her caress.

The back rank, she discovers, comprises eight golden couples in different positions of ecstatic congress.

"That's... one way to make a dick move," she deadpans.

"Or a cock block," Petyr returns smoothly.

* * *

As always, she deliberately understates her skills, her street-smarts, her sexy, sexy mind.

Petyr knows Sansa Stark doesn't just play "a little" chess. The thesis is parked for now — she's making beautiful progress anyway. But he settles into his armchair as she sinks into the couch opposite him. He's brought out an old handmade beauty he'd rescued one day from a garage sale. Each wooden piece is sentimental as fuck.

She's never played chess with a clock before. It's simple enough — make your move and then start your opponent's countdown. He runs through the standard competition rules. She learns quickly.

* * *

Chess is a thinker's game and while Petyr finds it usually relaxes him, he's now tingling with anticipation. The mind-fuckery is going to be especially fun.

"Any preference?" he asks, spinning the board around.

"White," she says. "You're the blackguard, after all."

He laughs and stops the board so it faces them both dead straight.

"Please," he gestures gallantly, "start first. I'd love to see your... opening."

Sansa rolls her eyes, but she closes her legs as her hand hovers over the middle pawn.

“The Ruy López!" Petyr guesses and she stops and glares. It's so easy to rile her.

* * *

So she _has_ gone for the Ruy López opening. Interesting.

He could counter with the Schliemann Defense or the Jaenisch Gambit. Or he could just play safe and go the Marshall's Attack.

Then again, she could just go wild. Petyr leans back and savours the thought.

Sansa moves her knight, switching to the Dyckhoff Variation. She flashes him the coquette's smile as if she knows something that he doesn't.

 _We'll see._ He mirrors her. They both move their queens.

She stretches her legs. Boots off — it's only her stockinged feet. One just happens to brush the underside of his calf.

* * *

It'd seemed obvious to Sansa. She'd make her move, press her clock to start his countdown, and use both his time and hers to think.

Easier said than done.

Petyr plays a fast game even as his eyes never leave hers. He barely looks at the board. It's like he sees the play in his head.

She moves her bishop diagonal to his knight. He raises an eyebrow when she hits her clock.

He responds within seconds. "Bishop to A6." His mouth curls in suggestion when he purrs, "Defend your queen."

 _Smug sonofabitch._ She's piqued as heck.

She's also wet.

* * *

She's leading him around the board now, baiting his knight. He indulges her, too amused and distracted to care. Every time he thwarts her, that pout turns decidedly more kissable.

Her toe slides further up his calf even as she glowers at him, slouching low in his couch. He picks up her foot casually, places it on his knee. Rubs her as he takes her bishop.

Silence as the clock ticks. He can't remember whose.

Her hand drifts up her skirt, hooks into the elastic wrapped snug around her thigh. She slides her stocking down and he meets her halfway.

* * *

Her eyes are transfixed as he tugs it lazily down and off her leg, when he rubs his thumb _hard_ into her bare arch. She'd painted her toenails pink.

Somehow their chairs are closer now, his legs parted wider. He drops her foot gently in his lap as he leans over to consider her next move.

She slides her foot higher, glancing along the inner seam of his jeans. A knowing smile when she reaches his zip to find him attentive.

“Queen to G5..." She presses slowly and smiles as he hisses. "I like putting pressure on your... knight."

* * *

There is an order to these things. Your worthy opponent opens, you pick a Gambit, she picks an Attack, you defend... They all have names, they come with dance steps of their own.

Sansa doesn't play by the rules today. It'd be a first. He's oddly aroused by the thought.

And yet, she's _made_ for this. Her body is a chessboard today; black stockings, creamy-smooth legs, black panties. White shirt. Black bra.   

She touches his bishop suddenly — a bold move, for tournament rules insist she must now eat him. He watches her stroke its bulbous head, grazing its slit.

* * *

_This is annoying._ She didn't bank on losing quite so many pieces this early. The clock ticks: forty moves in the time or you lose. She's only made eleven moves and lost three.

The house is heated but the rain outside is still steady. Her skin starts to pebble, and she knows it's from his unflinching knowing gaze.

Sansa eats his pawn. It's a small victory but she'll take what she can. She tells him, "Well? You know the rules!" It's an echo of his very own words.

She leans forward and tugs at his shirt. "I choose this one.”

* * *

He's already given her a handicap because he's wearing fewer pieces to begin with. He's lost his socks, his T-shirt. He's got one ring left.

Meanwhile, Sansa is down to her bra. She's managed to hold on to her skirt.

Not her knickers, though. Petyr smiles.

She's perched on his couch like a princess anyway, legs pressed demurely to the side, hair down to give herself some cover. He doesn't touch her. He doesn't have to. He's hard, wondering if she's slick underneath that little black skirt that flares.    

“Watch for my bad bishop, Sansa… before he eats your queen.”

* * *

He captures her remaining knight, the one guarding her royal pair valiantly until it couldn't. He captures it while she's staring at his very hard, very bare cock.

He makes her remove her bra excruciatingly slow as he sighs.

“Have you heard of Dzindzichashvili?” he asks her now, as if her perfect breasts are not begging to be kissed and sucked and fucked.

“The chess grandmaster?” Sansa smirks. "I've read his books.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Petyr." Her tone is haughty, but only playfully so. "Not only have I _read_ Dzindzichashvili, I can _spell_ Dzindzichashvili.”

“I can spell Dzindzichashvili with my tongue.”

* * *

"I—..."

Her head rolls back. She's propped herself up on her elbows because she wants the view. The view is killing her.

"C—" Her breath shallows. "H... A... Ssssssss..."

Her elbows buckle slightly and then she's flat on her back, fingers reaching down and into his hair. She swears he's adding letters, the cheater. She can't help it now — she pulls him in and is duly rewarded. He tongues her clit as he holds her down.

"Veeee..." High-pitched and broken. He looks up, his Van Dyke beard wet with her.

"You missed a letter," he chides. "From the top. Again."

* * *

Somewhere between the polished timber floor and his couch, the chess board got side-swiped clean.

No matter. He still knows where every piece had stood. They both do.

"See the whole board," he teaches her as his fingers sink into her cunt and work her into a froth so she moans into the room. "Where am I, where are you two, three, eight steps from now?"

He slips his third finger in her, pumping and rubbing, pumping and rubbing. A relentless provocation that has her clinging like a limpet and sobbing.

"Call out your move," he commands, the squelching obscene.  

* * *

"Queen to F6!" she cries, her eyes, her mind dizzy and swimming.

"King D7," he growls, watching her pant and writhe. _Beautiful_.

She moves her pawn, he moves his queen back. And then finally, she moves her castle. "Rook... to D2," she gasps, curling up and clenching.

He moves his pawn, she captures it. His bishop swoops in exacting vengeance, even as his fingers brush over her clit so quickly, they're but a blur. She arches her back, calls for her knight and fells another pawn.  

"My bishop's taking your castle," he leers when she comes hard in his hand.

* * *

"You owe me three pieces," he reminds her mildly as he leans back to sit on his haunches. She tosses her skirt, her thin gold necklace, her wedding ring.

They stare at each other a while, eyes devouring and curious and tender. And then he leans in suddenly, taking her face in his hands and supping from her lips like they're laced with nectar. Nothing but tiny wet sounds of tongues teasing as the rain patters on the panes.

He lies down slowly, lazily. Spread open and vulnerable to her. "It's your move now," he says. "Come take my bishop."

* * *

She wants to snort at the awful pun like she has all afternoon.

Instead, she settles herself between his legs, kissing the down of hair leading like a grassy trail to the thicket where his thick, smooth cock waits patiently.

The moment she wraps her hot mouth around him, swirling her tongue around the head of him, parting slowly the oozing little slit, he loses all time as he sucks his teeth and forgets to breathe.

It's not just that she's excellent at drawing out his need like this. It's that she's even here at all. That she wants him.

* * *

He feels within himself the onset of his unravelling, the telltale uncoiling.

Petyr pushes himself up even as he coaxes her down like they're on an erotic see-saw. He slides his fingers into her sopping cunt as she wraps her feet around his buttocks and squeezes. He slips a finger in her ass that's so ready for him, she groans.

And then he pushes into her, feeling her walls wrap hot and tight and slick around him. He pulls out, bracing himself on his hands as he stares down with a strange, dark love before fucking her slowly into his couch.

* * *

When she comes — and she always, _always_ does with him — there's a purity in the moment as everything else recedes except for the way Petyr makes her feel. Without fail.

Her climax brings his own and then he's falling over her, his body overwhelmed as she fondly rakes his hair, as she brushes her lips across his dear old face, their hips still melded.

"As if you can be Cat's daughter and only know 'a little' chess!" he suddenly snorts, and she laughs softly.

They listen to the rain and she kisses him just as the chess clock starts to chime.

**Author's Note:**

> FIRST OF ALL: if you're a chess buff, I'm so sorry if this is an inaccurate take on your favourite strategy game. Chess is not my Nerd. I just wanted thinking-sexy chess. 
> 
> This is probably the longest it's taken me to write 2,000 words or 20 drabbles. But I did enjoy researching the game and then trying to marry an actual chess game with innuendo within a word count. Masochist? Anal retentive? Just a little.
> 
> Many of you may not be familiar with chess rules, although you may know that the object of the game is to capture the King. The Kings are each flanked by power movers on either side of them: his queen, who runs everywhere on the board, his knights, his bishops, and his rooks. Then there's 8 foot soldiers in front of him.
> 
> There was a small challenge in balancing the wordplay and Chess Nerdery with the innuendo and feels. I had to throw out the more technical chess leering ("I like it when my rook is at your open file!" "Gotta love a soft opening!") and even then, some of you might be all WTF at the chess terms and phrases.
> 
> Here's a tiny glossary of some that I used.
> 
> **GLOSSARY OF CHESS TERMS**
> 
>   * **Bad Bishop:** Several definitions, but basically a bad bishop is on the same colour as its pawns. 
>   * **Opening** : Refers to the initial moves of a chess game. Often, at high-falutin levels, the opening move sets the strategy and the counter-strategy for both sides. White always starts first. 
>   * **Rook:** The chess piece that looks like a castle. According to Wikipedia. it's considered incorrect, informal, or old-fashioned to call it a castle. But eh. 
>   * **Touch-move rule:** When Sansa touches Petyr's chess piece (the bishop) on her turn, competition rules state if you touch your opponent's piece, you must capture it if it's legal to do so. 
> 

> 
> Anyhoo. Hope you enjoyed this one anyway! If you haven't already guessed, I love chatting to readers. So please, drop me a Hello if you're not too shy.
> 
> I am also on [Tumblr.](https://0pheliaraine.tumblr.com/) I have a [writing schedule](https://calendar.google.com/calendar/embed?src=o817rtudvnf415pb5388sq7r1k%40group.calendar.google.com&ctz=Australia%2FSydney>schedule%20of%20fic%20releases</a>%20which%20is%20also%20viewable%20in%20the%20<a%20href=) that gives an indication of other works and updates coming up — although that's all subject to change, of course. This calendar is also viewable in the [ desktop version of Tumblr](https://0pheliaraine.tumblr.com/writing-schedule).


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